


Relative Obviousness

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Coming Out, Episode: s02e01 A Scandal in Belgravia, F/F, Fluff, Pining, Story: The Adventure of the Musgrave Ritual, not a case fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-05
Updated: 2017-02-05
Packaged: 2018-09-22 07:24:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9591650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Unbetad, unbritpicked, and I forgot Sherlock didn't make his 'i have no friends' speech until after asib, please forgive me!





	

**Author's Note:**

> Unbetad, unbritpicked, and I forgot Sherlock didn't make his 'i have no friends' speech until after asib, please forgive me!

“So, she a friend of yours?”

“Friend? No.” Sherlock murmurs, her fingertips already touching in front of her face as they always do when she’s thinking particularly hard about something. It’s not as though John should be surprised of course, the case had every making of being at least a 9 in Sherlock’s book. A riddle, family secrets, disappearances, and, even if she wouldn’t admit to it being interesting, romantic entanglement. All of it being served on a platter directly to Sherlock via an acquaintance from Uni.

Regina Musgrave was posh and gorgeous and well read, everything John ever imagined about the people Sherlock might have amused herself with during her formative years. Her sharp angled bob was glossy, her accent decidedly high society, and her short dress was perfectly tailored to fit her without being the slightest bit indecent. She spoke to Sherlock in a way that surprised John though, it was not the derision or condescension that John might have expected from someone who knew Sherlock at what she has come to know as her most volatile time, instead she was only slightly grudging in her respect for Sherlock’s talents and their conversation seemed to hold a level of acceptance John could not put her finger on.

Although they were clearly not close by any means John couldn’t help but wonder to herself if Sherlock truly had been downplaying her past experience in social relationships, surely she couldn’t have actually made it through three decades of life without making any sort of bond.

“Really? You seemed…” _close_ , John wants to say, but that is inaccurate, and worse, it betrays a bit more of John’s thoughts on the matter than she likes.

“As I’ve told you before, John, I don’t _have friends_.” Sherlock reminds her lazily. “However, women like Regina and I…it is hard not to develop a respect for one another.”

“I’m sorry? What do you mean, women like you?”

She fixes John with a vaguely pitying gaze as if to say _, ‘what goes on in that tiny brain of yours?’_ and John feels the tips of her ears go red out of embarrassment even though she gets that look several times a day on a good week.

“Tell me, do you think you are trying to spare my feelings in some way by being purposefully daft, or do you truly not know?”

“Sherlock.” John warns, leaving a little bit of the bite out because sometimes Sherlock really doesn’t know when it comes to things like feelings.

“Regina and I are lesbians, John.” She says it in the same tone a primary school teacher might explain that A is for apple.

John felt her fist clench, there were too many thoughts flying through her head for her to risk getting upset about Sherlock’s usual talking down to her, it’s not as if she does it on purpose…well that’s a lie, but she doesn’t really mean for it to hurt her, it’s just ingrained into her nature.

“W-well how was I supposed to know? It’s not like either of you really look it!”

John’s mind unhelpfully conjured up a picture of her own sister and Clara, who’s short hair and penchant for wearing mud covered Birkenstocks to walk their dogs was not matching her picture of her flat mate, all red lipstick and perfect curls and high heels that had the red bottom to prove they were worth more than a week’s salary at the clinic.

“Really, John, stereotypes?”

“Doesn’t your job rely on stereotypes?”

“My job relies on observation, something you clearly still cannot get a grasp of, which, frankly, is a bit sad considering your sister.” Her lips twist into something mocking as she nods to conclude her point.

“Yes, well, since we’re sharing today I think it’s also a bit sad…considering me.” John holds in a breath and looks resolutely forward, almost seeing past Sherlock, but not wanting to back down or seem embarrassed again. It’s not often that she’s had to come out, men suited her fine enough that she got to Uni before trying to date another girl, and in Uni no one really needs an answer. Nowadays it’s easier to just take romantic opportunities that come to her, rather than seeking them out, balance of probability shows this means mostly men take her on dates.

Of course Sherlock seems to be reading all of this off of her like the front page of The Guardian.

“Ah, there’s always something.” Sherlock tells her, a mirror of the night after they first met. And that seems to be it, she goes back to staring past her fingertips into whatever wall in her mind palace has the Musgrave Ritual scrawled across it, eventually John takes her cold cup of tea to the sink and settles in for the night. By the next week it’s as if none of it ever happened.

Everything is back to normal.

Everything should be back to normal.

Everything would be back to normal if it weren’t for Irene Adler.

Irene Adler with her own red lips curled up into a smirk and constantly teasing John about Sherlock. How she knew where to look, how Irene would have her, how Sherlock and John are a couple. The last one cuts the most, because _she knows it isn’t true_ , Irene knows it and she says it anyway just to hurt her. Because even though she knows now she wasn’t being disgusting, and predatory, and deviant by lusting after her straight flat mate it’s now a thousand times worse because Sherlock still doesn’t want her.

How could she want broken, graying, barely presentable John Watson when there’s an Irene Adler waiting around the corner. John can imagine the couple they’d make, two images of beauty hanging off one another just to remind the mere mortals of how unworthy they all all.

It hurts more than it should to come home to Sherlock’s heartbroken violin playing, now that she can put a face to the soft keening notes, before Irene she couldn’t make heads or tails of what the songs could be about, but now she thinks she understands. Sherlock’s hurting, been hurt before, and what she can’t or won’t put into words she puts into the movement of her long fingers and the slide of the bow over strings.

There is an ache beneath John’s ribs and a stinging behind her eyes that show themselves whenever there are nights like this, she’s not entitled to share the pain, but her heart does anyway, fills up with the dark feeling until it’s full to bursting and she has to scream into a pillow to prevent it from coming out in other ways.

John hates that it has to be her to lie to Sherlock.

Hates that Sherlock asks for the phone.

And even more, hates that she knows there is no request Sherlock could make to her that she could deny. So instead of fighting she simply hands it over with a heavy hand, letting a small _‘I’m sorry.’_ slip before she is able to catch herself. It may be because she doesn’t want to lie to Sherlock, but it may also be that she is feeling a little sorry for herself, either way she’s embarrassed and angry at the slip up.

Until Sherlock raises her head away from the microscope with a small upturn to her lips, eyes still cast downward and partially obscured by her curls from John’s perspective.

“Irene, she…it was just a game,” Sherlock murmurs. “she got cocky, she thought that matters of the heart were above me, that I wouldn’t- couldn’t understand…She did not anticipate the truth, but I don’t blame her, not when I could barely understand it myself.”

“What?” John didn’t understand what Sherlock was saying, and why at this moment she was bringing it up.

“She couldn’t resist…and neither could I.” Sherlock looks up at John, her pale eyes a little sad and her perfect cupid’s bow lips in a rueful smile.

“Sherlock, what are you talking about, just tell me.” John is whispering for some reason, feeling like if she raises her voice even a little the moment would shatter irreparably.

“I couldn’t resist letting my heart rule my brain, I am thinking of you constantly, John Watson. I find myself doing ridiculous things, going to ridiculous lengths just to impress you without thinking of any consequences first. All of these symptoms leading to one final cause the only thing I’ve been trying to distance myself from since even before I knew there would be someone to challenge it.” Her eyebrows knit together, but she keeps her gaze and tone even, as if she is listing off clues at a crime scene to John. “Love.”

“Love?” John can feel the rapid beating beneath her ribs and steep drop in her stomach, but she does not allow herself to reveal any more, there have been too many times where she and Sherlock have been on completely different pages without her knowing until much later.

“Tell me, are you trying to spare my feelings, or do you truly not know?”

“Sherlock…” John’s voice breaks embarrassingly.

“I love you, John Watson.” She says it in that A is for apple tone again and it’s all John can do not to sob and the relative obviousness.

To keep that from happening she instead rushes forward, taking advantage of Sherlock’s position on the chair to press her entire body against Sherlock’s, her head resting on top, taller for once. For a moment she just breathes in the scent of her, allows their body heat to mingle and presses not-quite-a-kiss to the crown of her head.

“I love you so much, Sherlock, I love you too.” She breathes, her words shaky and uneven but so honest it hurts.

“John…” She says, voice tiny and wet.

John loosens her grip to gaze down at Sherlock and at once she pushes up to kiss her. Sherlock’s lips are covered in a layer of lipstick that makes them dry and sticky at the same time, and her tears have transferred from her face to John’s, but it’s still perfect. They kiss and kiss and stop to just breathe each other’s air in between kisses. Sherlock gets her hand tangled trying to undo John’s military bun blind and they laugh.

They laugh and cry and at some point end up on the couch, tangled up in each other and letting sleep take them over. John’s last thought before she nods off is about the slight humming song Sherlock is making with her mouth and how it finally sounds _happy_.


End file.
